Skin Tight
by Sorrel
Summary: Sequel to Bone Deep. Seven years on, Claire still has new things to learn, about herself, her friends, her family, and her place in this world she's helped create. Claire/Claude, off-screen Peter/Claude and Peter/Claire UST. AU after Season One.


**Skin Tight.**

* * *

"No, Robert. We're not going to be getting back together any time soon. In fact, we're not going to be getting back together ever. Am I making myself clear here?"

Claire detoured around the end of the couch, long practice allowing her to avoid the booted feet dangling off the end, and headed for the kitchen. Robert followed her, his expression earnest. Then again, everything Robert did was earnest. It was a lot more annoying at close range than it had looked from a distance, which is why they were no longer together.

"But Claire, please! I love you!"

"No, you don't," she said. Her coffeepot chirped at her cheerfully, and she gave it an affectionate pat as she rooted around in her cupboard for a mug. "You fall in love with your breakfast cereal. It doesn't count."

"That's not fair," he pouted. Damn. She'd forgotten about the pouting. Another reason they were no longer together.

"Maybe not, but it's true." Aha! The coffee mug secured, she headed back for the coffeepot and poured herself a nice, hot cup. Ahh. Nirvana by way of caffeine.

"I just think that we have such a great future together," he persisted. Persistence was all well and good, she certainly had more than her fair share of that particular trait, but using the spare key he'd doggedly hung onto to force his way into her apartment at eight am on a Saturday morning was way pushing it.

"We don't have any future together, great or otherwise." She took another, meditative sip. Coffee made everything better. If she had to pick one thing she'd learned from Nathan, it was the curative properties of extremely expensive coffee.

"I want a family with you."

She set her coffee aside, suddenly losing the taste for it. Some things, coffee really couldn't fix. "Robert, I can't begin to explain to you what an incredibly stupid idea that is," she said. "I already have a family! Hell, I have three!" Or more, depending on how you did the count. Adopted and biological, plus the whole, Sanders-Hawkins-Suresh _conglomerate_ of unrelated and semi-related people that seemed to converge on that house out in Queens every Sunday. And then there were all of the people she worked with at the Institute. And the people at the Farm, and Zach and Jake and the powered kids they fostered, plus all of the assorted aunts, uncles, and cousins that came along with Jake… Yeah. She had more family than she knew what to do with.

"But I know you want kids of your own," he said fatuously, further cementing her opinion that Robert had never actually known her. What a surprise.

"No, I really don't," she said. "And furthermore-"

A grunt from the living room interrupted what would have been a _great_ speech, and Robert looked abruptly freaked-out. Oh, poor baby, she thought, a little meanly. Did he think they were _alone?_ Silly boy.

An annoyed grumble came from the living room, followed by the _thump_ of a large person hitting the carpet, and then further grumblings as that person picked himself up and stumbled towards her kitchen. Claire smiled into her coffee cup, good humor restored, as Claude appeared in her kitchen doorway, still fully dressed down to his boots, rasping one hand over the three-days-old stubble on his jaw.

"Couldn't sleep, what with you two yammering in 'ere," he said thickly. His gaze zeroed in on the mug in her hands. "Coffee?"

She handed it over without a qualm, and then snagged another mug and poured herself another mug. "W-who's this?" Robert stuttered, and right, this was yet another reason they'd broken up. Because he had a key to her apartment but before today, he'd used it so few times that he didn't know about Claude. Because she'd never cared enough to introduce him to the important people in her life. If he had been, she'd've had him on a plane to Texas months ago, and he wouldn't be stammering at Claude like he'd just performed some kind of magic trick, instead of just taking an invisible nap on the couch. Robert was the Institute's lawyer; he should be used to… _unusual _talents by now.

"This is Claude," she said, because she wasn't that mean. "He's my-" _Friend,_ she was going to say, but that didn't quite seem to cover it. She stared at Claude for a long moment, who stared back, one eyebrow raised in challenge. "He's something," she finished with a shrug. Not like she'd ever been all that great with clearly defined relationships in her life. "He's Peter's partner, but for some reason seems to have an epic love affair with my couch."

"Fuck if I'm living in that mausoleum," Claude grumbled, which Claire thought was unfair. The Petrelli mansion was large, yes, but hardly cold and unfriendly. The Terrible Trio had seen to that. "And I'm not Peter's anything."

"Right, you just keep telling yourself that," she grinned. Then, remembering Robert, she took in his shell-shocked expression and shook her head. "You remember what I was saying about kids? I have my hands full right here." Claude flipped her off. When Robert didn't respond, she said, "Trust me, Robert. We're really not meant to be."

"…I guess not," he said faintly. He took a half-step backwards, clearly ready to bolt. "I guess I'll see you around, Claire."

"Guess so," she said. She waited till he almost to the door, then called, "Oh, and Robert?"

He turned around, something like hope on his face. "Yes?"

"Leave your key," she said, and ignored the disappointment on his face in favor of making sure he left the key on the table in the foyer before he let himself out.

"Trouble, that one," Claude said. He was leaning against the island, a few feet away, his large hands wrapped around the mug. "You sure can pick 'em."

She dismissed that with a wave of her non-coffee-holding hand. "He's the Institute's lawyer," she said. "I thought he was made of hardier stock. Nathan doesn't usually screw up with people like that."

Claude mumbled something incoherent and almost certainly insulting to Nathan. Claire thought that she caught something that sounded like "cold fish" and grinned. She'd long ago forgiven her biological father for his part in the events that had led up to Peter's explosion. He'd taken Peter away from her, yes, but Peter had come back, and he'd come back to her first. That had gone a long way towards soothing her hurt feelings, petty as they may have been, and Nathan had more than redeemed himself in the mess surrounding his wife's attack ten years ago. She trusted him. On some days she even loved him. But he wasn't her Dad, and she never once called him that. Her Dad lived on a farm down in Texas, running a halfway house for all the people with powers who couldn't integrate all that easily into the rest of society.

Claude, on the other hand, had never once warmed up to Nathan and probably never would. Part of it was because he hated politicians on principle, but Claire knew that the biggest part of it was simply that Nathan was a part of Peter's life that Claude couldn't, and wouldn't, touch. Besides Claude and Nathan, there were only two other people that Peter cared about, and he was as much a part of Peter's relationship with them as Peter himself was, but there was over thirty years of history, trust, love, and a family bond even Claude couldn't curse out of existence between Peter and Nathan, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Claire knew all of this, and tried to compensate by opening her home- and her heart, damn it- to Claude as unconditionally as she could. Peter's buddy/warrior/geek bond with Hiro wasn't a problem for Claude, since he was more often than not tagging along with Peter when he went on his shared missions with Hiro, but Claire was more complicated, and she did her best to uncomplicate it. Which was… difficult, sometimes. But ultimately rewarding. Besides Zach, Claude was the best friend she had.

Not that she planned on telling him that.

"I knew you'd show up and scare him off," she said. "It wasn't a problem."

He snorted in disgust. "And just how'd you know that, then? Not like you so much as twitched when I came in last night."

Which meant that he'd come into her room to check up on her, something that had been happening more and more frequently in the last few months. She couldn't figure out why, what motivations he had in that twisty brain of his, but she accepted it just like she'd accepted all of the other million or so oddities. Seven years was a long time to get used to somebody, and she'd had ample reason to make the effort. At first because of Peter, and maybe a little bit because of her Dad… and then just because he was Claude, and that was enough.

"You've been sleeping on my couch for five years," she said. Ever since the Incident, when she'd moved out of her respective fathers' houses and gotten her own place at twenty. Paid for by Institute money, which meant Petrelli money, but she didn't have as much pride about these things as she'd once thought she would. Nathan had the money, and he wanted to spend it on her, and so she let him, within reason. It worked out for both of them. "I figured out how to notice you when you're invisible a long damn time ago, as a self-defense mechanism."

"Hmmph," he said, unsatisfied, but he didn't ask about it again, which was just as well. If he pressed her, she'd have to lie, because he'd never believe her if she told him that she could sense when some people were near- him, and Peter, and Nathan, sometimes. The three most powerful men she'd ever met, in their ways, and they gave off a sort of… aura, almost, as if their personalities were so strong that they seeped into the air around them. She could tell when they were close, and in Claude's (and sometimes Peter's) case, where they were when they were invisible. She didn't think it was a psychic thing, another power showing up… just a her thing, a self-defense mechanism, like she said. She spent her life surrounded with powerful men; she needed every advantage she could get.

And maybe that's why she dated spineless wimps life Robert, she mused. Because she was looking for someone different.

_Or maybe it's because you can't have the man you really want and you know it,_ a vicious little voice whispered. She ignored it. She'd had a long time to come to terms with the facts of her non-relationship with Peter, and things hadn't changed any. She still loved him. She was pretty sure that he still loved her, for all that he belonged to Claude as surely as Claude belonged to him. (She hadn't been lying to Robert about that, and Claude's grumble had been hot air. Claude was a realist if nothing else. He knew that he might as well have Peter's name stamped on his forehead, and he wasn't as unhappy about the fact as he liked to pretend.)

"Did Peter come in with you?" she said abruptly. Claude tilted his head, probably a little surprised by the subject change after the meditative silence, but he didn't ask what had prompted her question, just shook his head and answered.

"Still on the continent. He'n th' boy-" (The boy being Hiro, who was about as un-child-like as humanly possible these days, with the exception of someone letting him get near a comic shop, not that Claude gave a damn) "-wanted to check out a lead on a clairvoyant. Since I'm useless as tits on a bull with that lot, I had him drop me at home to see if I could get a good kip in before the next trip out. Been a long damn week with those two."

She didn't say anything. The truth of the matter was that he wasn't as young as he liked to pretend he was, and he couldn't always keep up with a pair of brazen, superpowered hotshots in their late thirties. Not that Claude ever admitted to an age—or a birthday, for that matter—but by her guess he was probably in his late fifties, though he'd aged phenomenally well. Most people with the marker did. Peter at thirty had looked like he should be out drinking with college kids, and Peter pushing forty still looked too young for the responsible business suit Nathan sometimes conned him into. And as for her… Well. She was only twenty-five, after all. It wasn't like she was _supposed_ to be looking old.

On the other hand, she also still looked like a mature sixteen, the same way she had when her powers had flared up for the first time. She hadn't yet brought up the issue with any of her extremely extended family, but she was starting to get the suspicion that she was still going to be getting carded when she was Peter's age. Maybe even at Claude's.

But she didn't want to think about that, or about Peter, still off gallivanting around Europe. He'd contact her within a day or two, just like he always did, checking in and making sure she was okay, safe and happy, the usual thing. It was never worth it to worry about Peter, especially not when she had Claude in her kitchen, reaching the bottom of his coffee mug, probably sore, and almost certainly exhausted, thanks to Robert's inconsiderate early visit.

"C'mon," she said, snagging his cup and pouring him a refill. "I'll make you breakfast."

* * *

Claire didn't bother with the doorbell when she got to the Petrelli mansion. The doorbell would bring Harrison, the butler (or general man-of-the-house, he seemed to do everything. Claire used to think that he must have some kind of supernatural powers. That, or he never slept.) and she didn't want to bother him. Besides, she'd lived here for the first two years of college, and practically the first thing Nathan had done after the Incident with his ex-wife was to give her the key to the front door. She hadn't ever _needed_ the doorbell, but after the first few times an expressionless Harrison had answered the door instead of Nathan or the boys, she'd started using the key. More comfortable all around, really. And the key looked like it belonged on her key ring, now, instead of the prestigious loner surrounded by the lower class.

Or, y'know, maybe she'd just gotten over some of her issues. Whatever.

She didn't see anyone lurking around the foyer, so she went looking. First place to check was always the rec room- Simon liked to do his homework with the TV blaring, which against all odds actually worked for him, instead of distracting him or driving him crazy. Monty, on the other hand, was like Claire- put a TV on anywhere in earshot, and he wouldn't be able to resist the lure of watching it. Monty always did say, affectionately enough for an older brother, than Simon was a serious freak. Which, hey. At least he was in good company.

Sure enough, there was Simon, slouched down in the loveseat he'd staked out as his years ago, absorbed in a textbook. She knocked lightly on the doorframe and he looked up, smiling when he saw who it was. "Hey, Claire."

"Hey, short stuff." She leaned her hip against the arm of the couch and gave his hair an affectionate ruffle, letting his curls catch between her fingers. God, he looked like Peter. It still surprised her, ever time she saw him, how much he resembled his uncle.

_Your uncle, too,_ whispered the nasty little voice. Like always, Claire ignored it.

"I'm taller than you, you know," Simon said mildly. "Have been for a while now. You can stop calling me that any time."

Despite the surface annoyance, his voice was untroubled. Monty was right about one thing- Simon was definitely the odd one out when it came to the Petrellis, just like Peter had been before him. Monty was a little carbon-copy of his Dad, ambitious and intelligent and charismatic, in his sophomore year of college and already ruling the school. Even Claire had Nathan's determination and stubbornness (and temper). Simon was like Peter, easygoing, loyal, slow to anger.

"Not a chance, kiddo," she said, and grinned. "Your dad around?" Simon was used to her not calling Nathan "her" Dad, understanding some of the etiquette of adoptees since one third of the Terrible Trio was one.

He jerked his thumb over one shoulder, towards Nathan's study, then went back to his bio textbook, conversation apparently over.

Well, then. She suppressed a laugh and climbed off the couch. Patient and easy going, yes. Good with people? Not really.

She didn't bother knocking when she went into Nathan's study. If he was doing something that he didn't want interrupted, it wasn't going to actually stop her from interrupting, so what was the point? With Simon still in residence, the Trio still had free range of the place, so it wasn't like he'd be doing anything embarrassing in there. Not without locking the door, anyway.

He was muttering his way through a stack of paperwork, but he smiled at her when she opened the door, and she was struck by the resemblance to his son outside. Simon might as well have been Peter's clone, but it was times like these that she could see the Petrelli stamp all over the lot of them. She was the only one who really stood out, a blonde poplar tree in the middle of a forest of dark oaks, but she'd gotten used to it years ago. She took after her mother in looks, which was just about the only thing she wanted from that woman, so it wasn't too bad.

"Claire," he said, and got up from his desk, coming over to give her a hug. She returned it, and gave him a kiss on the cheek, which made him smile again. She may have come late to his life, but once he'd gotten a handle on her existence, he'd gone about the business of having a daughter with a vengeance, and apparently that meant things like cheek kisses. Not like she minded- it cost her nothing, and it made him happy. "What brings you by?"

"What, I can't stop in and say hello to my own father?" He went back around behind his desk, and she perched on the edge. They'd had so many talks over this desk, just exactly like this. Her butt had practically worn a groove in the wood.

"Of course you can, Claire, you know you're always welcome." He pinned her with a shrewd look. "But this isn't exactly a social call."

She had to laugh. He knew her pretty well, had from their very first meeting. Put Peter in the room with him and Nathan was emotionally deaf and dumb, because Peter was family and he got too close. She and Nathan had never had that. They'd orbited each other for years now, sometimes closer and sometimes farther away, but she had a father and he had his children and they were always going to be something almost, but not quite, family to each other. Which meant that he could read her like a book.

"You're right," she admitted. "I thought I'd come and tell you before you heard it from someone else-" _(Niki)_ "-but I broke up with Robert this morning."

"Good," Nathan said immediately. He was radiating satisfaction, every inch the patriarch. This part of fatherhood? He liked. "He was never good enough for you."

"Funny you didn't mention that a little earlier," she said mildly enough. "Say, back when I _started_ dating him?"

"Would you have listened?" he asked, his smile wry. She sighed.

"Okay, fair enough. I go my own way, do my own thing, blah blah blah. I'm pretty sure we've been around this block before."

"A few times," he said with heavy irony. "So what was it this time?"

"Oh, the usual. Clingy. Dependent. Strangely uninterested in a short-term relationship, considering that he's a guy and I've heard they live for that sort of thing." She gave him a flat look, wondering how he'd take this one. "Never met my family."

He gave her his bland face back. Never show weakness, that was Nathan Petrelli. Unless your name was Peter Petrelli, because of course Peter was the exception to every fucking rule in the book for them. "One day, one of them is going to be good enough," Nathan said.

She shrugged restively, getting up to pace. "I thought he might be," she said. "I mean, he's the Institution's lawyer, right? He's used to the strange and unexplainable." She glared at Nathan. "_You_ hired him. How come you did that, if you didn't think he was good enough?"

"Good enough for the Institute? Absolutely. The man can bend the law into a pretzel if we ask him to, and we need someone like that on the payroll, in case of another Incident." Nathan winced at the expression on her face but pressed on, serious. "Good enough for you? Good enough to get on a plane to Texas and meet your family? I'm sorry, Claire, but it was never going to happen. Not a snowball's chance in hell."

"I've taken boyfriends home before," she said defensively. "A couple of them."

He raised an eyebrow.

"At least two," she insisted. "I know I brought home-" She stopped, suddenly. She wasn't going to think about this.

"Mason was different," he said gently. "He needed the Farm, just like he'd needed you. It wouldn't have lasted any longer than the others."

"Great," she said, flopping back into the leather chair on the other side of his desk. "So I'm doomed to be alone. Thanks a lot, Nathan. I'm so glad we had this little chat."

He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. It made him look human- or rather, it made her remember that he was human, underneath all the suits and the politics. He was her almost-family. "You're not doomed to be alone," he said. "Your problem is that you met Mason while you were still in college and after the Incident you kept looking for men just like him. And Claire, I love you and I thought Mason could have been a great guy if he'd had the chance to get his act together, but he was codependent and you're never going to have a healthy relationship if you're using that as a template."

_Codependent._ She figured that her wince could be attributed to Nathan's little "truth hurts" session, but the problem was that Nathan had inadvertently gotten a little closer to the truth than he probably realized, and she didn't like thinking about that either.

Mason wasn't her oldest template for that sort of thing. Her real problem was that she was pretty sure she was never going to find anyone else who needed her as much as he loved her, not without all the other assorted annoying personality flaws that usually came along with codependence.

She was pretty sure that there was only one guy like that for her, and he wasn't ever going to let her love him back. So she kept trying, and she kept tripping up and coming back to this same point, over and over again. Vicious circle.

She realized that Nathan was still sitting there, waiting patiently for an answer. "I'll think about it," was all she could say, and was grateful when he gave her a little nod of assent. Good. Glad to get that over and done with, for now at least. She'd probably be having this conversation again, next time she screwed up her love life. Gee, something to look forward to. What fun.

"That's all a man can ask," Nathan said with a smile, and sat back in his chair. "Now that that's settled, was there anything else you needed?"

She looked at him, half-smiling and ready for anything she wanted to throw at him. He really did take this being-a-dad thing pretty seriously, all things considered. No matter what else happened, he always went out of his way to be there for her.

Too bad he couldn't actually help with this. She might actually take him up on it, if he could.

"Nah," she said, and made herself smile back. "I gotta myself to work, or the boss is gonna be pissed."

"He's not as strict as all that, from what I've heard," Nathan said, but he turned his cheek to accept her goodbye kiss. "Don't work too hard."

"I'll do my best. See you later," she said, and left, the word she refused to say hovering in the air behind her.

_See you later, Dad,_ Nathan was thinking. He didn't say it either. He never did.

He'd learned not to ask.

* * *

Claude was on the couch when she got home, staring glumly at the television. Claire kicked off her shoes at the door and sat down next to him, careful not to get too close. Claude could get kind of prickly about his personal space being invaded, though she could get away with it sometimes, if she was sneaky enough.

"This is terrible," Claude said finally. "You Americans make the worst telly."

She peered at the screen with mild interest. It looked like some kind of soap opera- a rerun, since it was ten o'clock at night and soaps were called "daytime TV" for a reason. "Yeah, because your weird, incomprehensible British sitcoms are so much better," she retorted. "And it's your own fault for not using that handy little device sitting in front of you. You know, the remote control? The thing that lets you change the channel?"

He stared at the remote for a moment, like he was surprised to find it there (in plain sight on the coffee table) and then tossed a sneer in her direction that was halfhearted, at best. "Didn't feel like it."

She had to laugh at that bit of contrariness. "What, still worn out from your day of extreme napping?" She only realized that it had come out a bit more bitter than she'd intended when he gave her a level stare.

"Sounds like someone had a hard day. Petrelli have you scrubbing the floors?"

"I think that's supposed to be the stepmother, not the biological father," Claire said, "and no. I was at _work._" The last laden with a significant glance his way.

"Oh, yeah."

"_Oh, yeah,_" she mimicked, "that old thing. You couldn't have warned me that Peter was coming back with New Arrivals? Traumatized _twins,_ no less?"

"I had other things on my mind, what with your boy whingeing around the place first thing in the morning."

"He's not my boy," she said. Maybe a little wistful. "Not anymore."

He studied her, a disturbingly shrewd expression on his face. "You sorry about that?"

"What, breaking it off? No. He was a pretty sorry excuse for a boyfriend, looking back." She sighed and slumped a little deeper into the couch cushions, taking advantage of the movement to scoot her feet a little closer to his side of the couch. "But sometimes I miss the sense of connection. I miss knowing that there's someone who has you on his mind, that they think about you first thing in the morning when they wake up and last thing at night when they go to sleep." She grinned, a little, listening to herself. "Of course, I could ask for the moon while I'm at it."

"You have that now," Claude said. She glanced over at him, startled by the intensity in his voice. He looked away before their eyes could meet. "You've got friends, family. They all love you."

_They,_ she noticed, not _we,_ but didn't call him on it. Some things Claude just didn't say. "That's not what I was talking about and you know it, but thanks for saying it." She nudged her toes a little closer. They were definitely on Claude's sofa cushion now. "I don't know. I think I'm just in a weird mood."

"How could you tell?" he said wryly, and she kicked him, gently, with the heel of one foot. He grabbed in between his warm palms and didn't let go, just stared at her from underneath his eyebrows, waiting for her to explain.

"Nathan was talking to me about Mason this morning," she said finally. "I guess it just stirred up some old memories."

Claude's hands tightened reflexively around her foot, then relaxed again when he realized what he was doing. "Nathan Petrelli should fucking know better," he said, his voice low and angry. "Some things are best left alone."

"No, he had a good point," she said, but she was touched by the way he'd automatically leapt to her defense. "I always go back to people like Mason. I think I'm in a rut." She let her head loll back against the headrest and stared up at the ceiling. "I _am_ in a rut. I'm repeating the same pattern over and over, and it never ends well."

"So break the pattern," Claude said, and she lifted her head to stare at him.

"Break the pattern. Just like that."

"Just like that," he confirmed. He glanced down at her foot still in his lap as if confused at to why it was there, and then shrugged and pressed his thumb hard into her arch. Her eyes just about rolled into the back of her head.

"You might be- _unh-_ right. I was thinking about heading down to Texas for a little while, see if I can't get my head together."

"Texas?" he said skeptically.

"Yeah, you know, that place down Sou- _God_ that's good," she moaned, and then flinched as his hands tightened too hard over a particularly sensitive spot.

"Sorry," he said quickly. His fingers soothed lightly over the top of her foot in apology, and for half a second she could feel every scar and callus. "So, Texas is going to get your head on straight?"

"My Dad's been known to give advice," she said dryly. "And the twins are going down just as soon as Mohinder finishes the labs, anyway, so I might as well ride escort."

Claude shook his head. "I didn't realize they were that bad. Normally processing takes a couple days, at least."

"They're… confused," Claire said delicately. "They've had a hard life and they've just come into a lot of power, and the way things are they don't trust anyone but each other. Frankly, I'm a little nervous about letting them stay in the city even for a day. It's been a long time since you found anyone this troubled."

"They're orphans, no idea where they belong on Suresh's map," Claude explained. Setting down one foot, he picked up the other and started working on it. "Never even blipped on our radar, until the boy burnt down their house two weeks back."

"Pyrokinetic," Claire said, shaking her head. "And she's a cryokinetic. I've never seen anything like them."

"World's opening up," Claude said. "New talents every day, it seems like."

"And it's up to you to find them."

"Maybe, but you're the one who has to keep track of them all, make sure everyone's safe and cared for." He rolled her heel along the ridge of his palm. "Mayhap it's time you had a little help."

She raised an eyebrow in his direction. "I don't see you volunteering."

"And you won't," he said. "I'm no good with people. Get yourself an assistant, or some such. And in the meantime," he added, setting her foot down with an absentminded little pat, "you've got yourself a friend for your field trip."

She studied his face for a long moment. "You've never gotten involved before."

"Yeah, well, maybe I worry about you," he said. She had to fight to keep her reaction off her face; it wasn't like she hadn't know it, he'd been her friend for years, but he never _said_ stuff like that. Combine that with the way he was checking on her in the middle of the night, and that meant there was something weirder than usual going on inside his head. "And I was there when we found 'em, so maybe I can help deliver them safe and sound to your daddy's door."

She pursed her lips. "You don't go voluntarily down to Texas."

"If you don't want me to go-" he said, tensing.

She reached over and slapped him on the arm. "Don't be stupid. Of course I want you to go. I'm just a little suspicious as to _why_ you're doing it, that's all."

"I worry about you," he repeated, and this time, she believed every word.

"I'll tell the pilot seats for four tomorrow, then," she said, and watched as he relaxed.

"Good," he said softly. "Good."

* * *

Taking a plane ride with Claude was like being trapped in an overlarge box with a hyperactive two-year-old. If they'd been in anything more crowded than the Petrelli private plane, Claire would have strangled him five minutes into the flight.

She'd had no idea what he was like on long trips. Most of the time, when he was running around the world he was doing it by teleport, tagging along with Peter and/or Hiro. He hadn't really had to take the long way around since he'd hooked up with Peter. Claire suspected that the last time he'd been on a plane was during his years on the run from the Company- maybe even earlier, when he was still working with her Dad.

He was also claustrophobic and deeply unhappy about the idea of being stuck way up in the air in a metal box with no way to get out and back to the ground, and he expressed this by fidgeting, pacing, talking when she was trying to concentrate on her charges, and generally making a nuisance of himself. So much for helping her out with the twins.

Luckily, Monty was taking advantage of his three-day-weekend to get a little more tarnish on his pilot's license, so at least they weren't flying with a stranger. The though of making it through this trip with one of the Institute's blank-faced bodyguard types in that cockpit was just a little horrifying. Sometimes, it was just nice to be able to trust in a familiar face- and hey, she was the reason Monty had passed eighth grade. It was hard to get more familiar than family.

Which didn't mean that she was happy about the large man breathing down her neck.

"Claude, if you don't back off you're going to start regretting it, like, real soon."

He stepped back all of two inches.

"You're still hovering."

"I'm not hovering," he said.

"You sure as hell won't be if I throw you out of the plane," she pointed out.

After that, he got out of her personal space bubble, which was really about as much as she could ask for when he was in a mood. And it left her with enough concentration to focus where she was supposed to be- on the children that she was trying to bring safely out to Texas.

They were rerouted for a temporary layover at Dulles, and Monty came into the back while they were waiting on the runway to keep them company. He didn't do much, just sat far enough away that none of their flickering powers could zap him and told them funny stories until they were smiling and relaxed, but that was enough for Claire. She took advantage of their distraction to mix a little fast-acting sedative into their drinks, and watched as they drank it all down.

Ten minutes later, the both of them were fast asleep. Claire carefully strapped them in for takeoff, spread blankets over their little bodies, and then turned her attention to Claude.

"Take a Dramamine," she said flatly.

He stopped fidgeting with his pillow and blinked at her. "I'm fine."

"For a certain definition of the word," she said. "And that won't last for long if you can't sit still for ten seconds." She paused to let that sink in, and added, "Don't make me get out the needles."

The plane always had a fully stocked med kit, with extremely powerful sedatives stored in a couple of pre-prepped pressure hypodermics. Claire was invulnerable, not stupid, and no one was taking any chances with a pair of powerful, out-of-control active talents on an airplane.

"You wouldn't," he said, but he was giving her a considering look, trying to figure out if she was serious after all. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared steadily back.

Meekly, he held out his hand for the pills.

She made sure he was strapped in, too, then headed up the cockpit and settled into the copilot's seat. "Done playing den mother?" he asked. His head was turned away, studying the activity on the runway, but she could hear the smile in his voice.

"You have no idea." She got herself belted in and closed her eyes, tired already. Some vacation this was turning out to be. "This isn't my job, you know. I'm an _administrator."_

"And I'm a college student," Monty told her. "We all pitch in."

She didn't have a good answer for that one, so she just fell silent as Monty got the all-clear for take-off. She'd always loved this part, the headlong rush down the runway, the slight lurch as they defied gravity and lifted off the ground. It had been a while since she'd taken a plane anywhere, even Texas- having Peter around had spoiled her for travel, too, she supposed- and she'd been distracted during the first leg of the trip, so she was appreciating it this time with all she had.

"And anyway, you're not half-bad at it," he continued once they'd gained sufficient altitude, sounding for all the world as if the fifteen-minute break in conversation hadn't happened. She had to struggle to remember what they'd been talking about, then caught up when he said, "Don't think I didn't see you getting fried back there. You kept your cool and didn't let them freak out, which is the main thing."

Claire grimaced and looked down at her unblemished hands. "It was the frostbite more than anything," she said. "I've gotten burned before, plenty of times. This is a little new."

Once upon a time, she'd tagged along for some of Peter and Hiro's little people-finding expeditions. The summer after Mason she'd needed something, _anything,_ to get her out of her head. She'd been… not in the way, she supposed, but not entirely useful. Hiro and Peter had the power, and Claude had the brains and black-ops training, and she was just a fucked-up nineteen-year-old who couldn't die. She'd helped out once or twice- including a burning building incident, pyrokinetics weren't all that rare- but it wasn't anything Peter couldn't do.

There wasn't really anything Peter couldn't do, actually, but that wasn't really the point.

"You're worth more than just your ability to take damage," Monty said. She looked over at him sharply, but his face was nothing but mild. She wasn't fooled, though. Monty was his father's son. He wouldn't have brought this up if he didn't have a point to make.

"I know that," she said lightly. "That's why I'm the admin. Nobody else was willing to sweat through years of business school to deal with it."

He somehow managed to give her a raised-brow look without actually looking away from the windshield. "Is that what you think?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. She would not let someone she'd read bedtime stories to get the better of her in conversational battle. She just wouldn't. "Nathan is the CEO, Niki runs the dorms, Mohinder runs the lab, Michael heads up training, and DL mostly takes care of new arrivals. And I do the paperwork. It all works. Most of the time."

"Just the paperwork, huh?" Monty's voice didn't give anything away. She scowled at his profile.

"Well, that, and riding herd on everyone else like they're five years old and don't know any better," the last bit being directed at the back of the plane, where Claude was sound asleep and couldn't hear her. "Look, what are you trying to get at?"

"Claude's not here because you push papers," Monty said quietly. She twisted around and looked back over her shoulder, just to make sure he couldn't hear her, before responding, equally quietly, "I know."

Monty nodded, and that was the last they said anything until they got to Dallas.

* * *

There was just something about coming home.

"I love you, Daddy," she said into her father's chest, and felt one rough, gun-calloused hand come up to stroke and catch at her hair.

"Love you too, Claire-bear," he said, just like she was still five or fifteen instead of twenty-five and on her own, and then he was stepping back and smiling down at her, one hand still on her shoulder. "Of course I got the word from your office about the new arrivals, but I had no idea you were bringing them down."

The implied reproof was, of course, all inside her own head, and from the wrong father, besides. Even after so many years in Texas, this one still held on to the bland everyman accent he'd developed during his years with the Company. Only occasionally did whatever hint of his real accent slip out, a rolled "r" or a mouthful of vowel amidst all the clipped, boring consonants. Nathan, for all he liked to think he was raised better than that sort of thing, was New York born and bred, though he hid it pretty well most of the time. "I needed a break," she said, and smiled back at her Dad. "Monty was nice enough to fly us down."

"He refueled in Dallas?"

"Yeah, he's well on his way back to New York." She stretched a little, trying to work the kinks out of her spine. "It was a long drive, and a long flight before that."

Her Dad directed an amused glance over her shoulder at the SUV she's rented at the airport, where Claude was still zonked out in the passenger seat. He was just about half-visible, his worse-than-she-remembered reaction to the drugs leaving his usual defenses down. She could see the curve of the cheek nearest to her, the pillowing hand underneath it, and one of the two boots she knew were making dirty prints on the dash. "I can see that."

Zach and Jake had pretty much swooped down and gotten the still-sleeping twins out before she'd had a chance to do more than put the car into park. Thank God for sedatives, that's all she could say. "Yeah, there were drugs all around."

"Except for you."

"Somebody had to drive," she said, with a rueful smile and a laughing half-toss of her hair. God, she was tired.

"Hmmm." Her Dad wasn't fooled, she could tell, but he was noticeably postponing the inevitable talk till later, which she appreciated. She wouldn't be here if she didn't want to talk, but… yeah. She needed a little time to recover from her most recent conversation.

"C'mon," she said, "let's get him inside and let him sleep it off."

"He never did react well to drugs," her Dad mused, and they shared a guilty, co-conspiratorial grin.

Luckily, the guest room was on the first floor, and when they opened the car door Claude woke up enough to walk mostly under his own steam, with just her guiding hand on his elbow to keep him from wandering off in the wrong direction. He landed facedown on the bed and was snoring within seconds, so she just pulled off his boots and left him to it, leaving the door open a tiny crack on her way out.

Zach was waiting for her in the living room, and she didn't hesitate to kick off her own shoes and take a flying leap across the room, diving into the chair next to him. She squirmed to get into a comfortable position, Zach laughingly helping, and ended up wedged into the corner of the overlarge chair, her legs spilling out over his lap, his arm around her in a comfortable half-hug.

"We're going to make Jake jealous," she told the side of his neck.

His chuckle sounded wonderful against her ear. "Man, you couldn't pry him out of that room with a crowbar."

"The kids are awake already?"

"Nah, they're still out for the count. Whatever you gave them really worked."

"Just a mild sedative."

"Then they must be ridiculously exhausted."

Two pairs of wide blue eyes, staring back at her, hyper-alert and terrified. "Yeah, I guess they were."

"Well, whatever you did, they're out now, and Jake's in there, doing his bonding thing."

"While they're asleep."

"Yep."

"So basically he's just indulging his stalker-dad instincts while they can't be creeped out by it."

"Basically," he agreed, and she giggled. "I think he's spent a little too much time with your Dad over the years, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, blech," she said. "If I hadn't turned out to be, y'know, invulnerable and all, I think he would have given me a chastity belt for my seventeenth birthday. Don't remind me."

She felt his fingers on her shoulder, soothing at the knots she knew were there. "Remind _you?_ I have to see it every day. I'm the token sane guy around here."

"And we appreciate it." She kissed his cheek, getting a skritch of whiskers for her trouble. "Even if you do forget to shave."

"Tell you what. You start growing facial hair, then you get to complain." His idly circling fingers firmed into something closer to an actual massage. "So what's up with you, anyway?"

Abrupt subject change, just like that. Segues were for the weak. "How do you know something's up?"

"Uh, because I've known you since you were, like, two?"

"There's that."

"And also because you're vibrating like a tuning fork."

She hadn't realized she was _that_ tense. "Noticed that, did you?"

"You're half on top of me; it's a little hard to miss." He started working on the base of her neck. "So what's wrong?"

She sighed. Like it was even possible to hold out to this kind of gentle interrogation. Even her Dad couldn't make her crack like Zach could. "I'm not sure. I've been feeling… restless, I guess. A little nostalgic, a little sad. I needed to get out here for a little bit, get my head on straight."

"Broke up with the lawyer boy, did you?"

His tone was nothing but sympathetic, but she twisted around till she could punch him (lightly) anyway, just because- "I hate it when you do that."

"Mind-reading, baby. It's my scary psychic Dad power."

"Okay, so yeah, we broke up. Then Nathan was talking about Mason-"

"Nathan should know better," Zach interrupted, steel in his voice.

Almost exactly what Claude had said, minus the cursing. She didn't deserve her friends. "No, it was fine. You guys can't walk on eggshells about it forever, you know." And Nathan had never had a lot of tolerance for eggshell-type things.

Zach just hugged her harder, a reflex left over from the weeks after Mason's death, where she'd walked around like a zombie and Zach had held onto her as hard as he could, like he could smother her grief with the weight of his body against hers. Eventually it had worked, sort of, and he'd never really gotten out of the habit. Which she didn't really mind, because… hey, Zach cuddles. He was just exactly like a boyfriend, only without any of the sexual tension or the painful emotional entanglements.

"The hell we can't."

"Be reasonable. I'll have to get over it eventually, right?"

She'd meant that question to be a little more flip and a little less plaintive, but he just gave her a serious look. "Some things you don't get over," he said. "Some things you shouldn't. This is one of those things."

"You sound pretty sure about that."

"I am."

"Hmm. Well, I _want_ to get over it, or at least not act like such a nut job whenever someone brings it up. It's been _six years,_ Zach. It's starting to be a little problematic for my social life. Crippling, you might say."

"Pfft. You just haven't found someone good enough for you, yet."

"Because of _Mason,_" she said pointedly. _And Peter,_ a little voice in her head added, but she ignored that. She'd never talk about that particular issue with Zach, and she wasn't about to start at this late date. "I just need to figure some things out."

"Well, there I can't help you," he said. "If you want to find your peaceful center, or get grape jelly out of the couch cushion, I'm your guy. But for this kind of thing, I'm basically out of advice."

"Yeah, I know. That's what Dad's for, right?"

He snorted. "No one does advice like Mr. Bennet."

She tilted her head back to look at him. "He still doesn't let you call him by his first name?"

"I'll feel comfortable doing that somewhere around when hell freezes over," Zach said, and she laughed.

It was good to be home again.

* * *

Peter did show up eventually, just like she'd known he would. Actually, she'd thought it would take longer than a day for him to show his face, but then again, Peter wasn't all that great at being on his own. As soon as he and Hiro finished his mission, he'd come looking for them, and then he'd come find them.

And find them he did. She'd felt the little nudging tickle at the back of her mind that she'd learned over the years to recognize as Peter doing a Search a few hours ago, and it was inevitable that he'd follow them here. He'd be able to feel that something was off, and then he'd come riding to rescue to see if her could make her better. Or at least hover watchfully until she could convince him she was fine, whichever happened first.

He found her out in the backyard, playing with the dogs. Mr. Muggles had long ago ceded his throne to a whole pack of strays, led by a German Sheppard mix that left Lassie in the dust when it came to getting people out of trouble. Sarah, the mostly-mute girl they'd found buried in the foster system and getting treated for mental illness because she talked to the hamster, had adopted him first, and the rest had followed because her Dad (and Jake, for that matter) was a sucker for girls with big eyes. Claire had milked that often enough in her childhood, so she knew the signs when she saw 'em. Not that Sarah didn't honestly have a lot of leftover trauma from her childhood, but along with her thirteenth birthday she'd seemed to gain the ability to tweak the men in her life just a little bit. Claire just thought that hey, she didn't go overboard, the Farm needed a few dogs, and that's what Jake and her Dad got for being such enormous suckers.

"Hey," he said quietly, and she just about jumped out of her skin, whipping around and glaring at him.

"What have I told you about sneaking up on me?"

Peter pretended to consider it. "Don't?"

"Putting a goddamn bell on you, I swear it," she grumbled, and he laughed. She tried not to smile back at him, she really did, but she caved just like she always did, because he was Peter and he was here and she loved him, and when he laughed he was the most beautiful thing in the world.

She waded out of the sea of dogs and hugged him, figuring if she had any dog drool on her, he deserved getting it all over him. He hugged back, looping one arm around her shoulder with easy familiarity. She ignored the equally familiar ache and rested her head on his shoulder, in the spot that she always secretly thought of as hers.

"Hey, you," he said, tweaking one of her curls. She'd thought about straightening them, once, because she knew where those came from. Her biological mother didn't have curls- not natural ones, anyway, Claire had been a cheerleader, she knew the effects of a curling iron by sight- and Nathan didn't, and the Ice Queen didn't, either. The only person who'd ever had curly hair was Peter, when he was younger, and it wasn't like she needed a tangible reminder of that fact that she was related to this man who hugged her like she belonged to him (even if she did, mostly). But he seemed to enjoy playing with them, so. They stayed.

Story of her life, really.

"Hey, back," she said. "When'd you get in?"

"This morning," he said. "Stopped by your apartment and when you and Claude were gone, it didn't take a brain trust to figure out where you'd gone."

"We could have been at Nathan's place," she said, just to hear him laugh again. It vibrated pleasantly against her side.

"Yeah, funny. Anyway, I figured I could take a week off from globe-hopping, and the Farm seemed as nice a place as any for my vacation, so here I am."

"And the fact that we're already here had nothing to do with it," she said dryly, but underneath her stomach tightened, waiting for his answer. Even after all these years, she could never be sure.

He tweaked her curl again and this time his hand stayed, rubbing the lock of hair between his fingers. "Well, maybe a little."

She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. No matter what else happened, as long as Claude came home to her, and as long as Peter came home to them, she could be content. Not happy, but content. Happy would require something that just wasn't on the cards. She knew how to take what she could get, enjoy the things she had, and not wish for more.

Well. Maybe a little wishing. But not a lot.

"So, it's not really like you to take off in the middle of the work week. Did something come up?"

Peter and subtlety, Claire thought wryly, were complete and total strangers to one another. Maybe it's why he was able to handle Claude so easily.

The thing was, though, Claire knew Peter was more curious than worried. She'd done something a little out of character, as he saw it, so he was wondering why, but he wasn't going to the emotional equivalent of Defcon Five, not like everyone else seemed to be around her. Nathan was fussing, Claude was fussing, Monty was plumbing new depths of emotional intimacy, and Zach thought she was on the verge of reverting to the nearly catatonic state she'd been in after Mason's death. Peter, though, Peter was just wondering. And she knew that because if he was actually worried about her, he'd just dig into her brain and find out for himself.

The thing about Peter, with his sometimes frightening array of powers, under such tight control, was that he had a fairly strict code of conduct. Especially for his mental powers. Another Talent might be able to find you, or read your mind, but while Peter couldn't use his powers simultaneously, he could use them in conjunction. He could be standing anywhere in the world, and just close his eyes and think of you, and he could know exactly where you were. With that knowledge he could use the far-sight he'd gotten off Heidi to look through your eyes, or just teleport to your side and read your mind directly. Even the idea of it was frightening for most people, which was why Peter wasn't really much of a people person, outside of a select few.

He didn't ever abuse his powers, unless it was an emergency or in service to the mission, except with her and Claude. (And, she suspected, Nathan, though she'd never gotten up the nerve to ask.) She and Claude had both made their own arrangements for Peter, for reasons that weren't too different, and Nathan of all people would be on Peter's list of People He Needed. She couldn't imagine that Nathan would have refused Peter anything, if he'd ever asked.

She could shut him out, of course. Claude had made sure of that. He'd sat her down at the beginning and made it clear that she knew she had the right to mental privacy, no matter what promises she'd made, and that she knew just exactly how to go about getting it. She almost never used the blocks, though, and she was pretty sure Claude didn't either. Peter needed them open to him, and so they were. It was as simple as that.

However, this didn't mean she didn't lie to him, once in a while.

"It's nothing much," she said, making herself shrug with a casualness she was far from feeling. "The twins needed to get out to the Farm pretty much immediately, so I volunteered. I needed a few days off, anyway."

"Some vacation." Peter gave her shoulders one last squeeze and then stepped away so he could get a better look at her face. "And Claude? I didn't think you could get him down here for love or money. He and your father don't exactly see eye-to-eye."

Actually, he got along fine with her Dad, as long as the both of them practiced mutual avoidance. It was the house full of barely-controlled Talents that he didn't like. All that power made him as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs, and Claire didn't blame him. After all, she'd seen firsthand just how bad things could get when someone's power spiraled out of their control.

"He's just a tagalong on this one. Says he's looking out for me, but honestly, I think he's just getting restless. Running out of world to explore, maybe." She felt a little guilty for throwing Claude to the metaphorical wolves like this, but she could _not_ handle spilling her issues to Peter, of all people. Not today, not ever. Claude was a big boy, he could take it. He'd probably enjoy bickering about it, later.

"Figures he ends up in the one place he hates the most." Peter scrubbed one hand over the top of his head, his focus shifting to the horizon. "I guess I can't blame him—too many bad memories—but it sure is gorgeous out here. I never really have much of a chance to get a look around when I'm down here. Has Jake expanded again?"

Claire got an idea. A wonderful, horrible, devious, _brilliant_ idea. "You know about Dad's camping trips, right?"

Peter cocked his head at her, one hand still cradling the base of his skull, his elbow pointing skyward. "Yeah, they're something of a legend at the Institute, you know."

Claire grinned at him, knowing that she probably looked a little evil and not caring. "Since you're here and all, why don't you tag along? They could use you, and you'll get a chance to get in touch with nature for a change. It's perfect."

It was rare for Peter to look panicked, but she was pretty sure that was what she was seeing in his eyes now. "When is it?"

"Tonight, actually," she said. "They're leaving in a few hours. Really, you should go. Dad would love to have you, and I bet you'd have fun."

Peter's arm drooped a little. "Are you going?"

"Not for love or money," she tossed back at him. "I'm staying in with a bottle of wine. But I'm not the most powerful Talent in the known world, Peter, and I'm not the one who rescued half these people. You're their hero. If anyone can keep them in line, it's you."

Peter scowled at her. "You're not even being subtle about bulldozing me into this," he complained.

She reached out and gave his hair a careless ruffle, like she'd do if it were Simon. She knew damn well this wasn't Simon, but she'd had a lot of practice. Her face gave away none of her pleasure at the feel of his hair sliding briefly through her fingers. "You're not being subtle about giving in."

He grinned at her and slung his arm once more around her shoulders. "Well, I could use the break from routine, anyway," he said. "It's a deal. Let's head inside and tell your Dad that I'll be adding to the chaos tonight, okay?"

She was just glad that she'd managed to deflect Peter so neatly from herself. And he'd be gone all night, and wouldn't have a chance to pester Claude about the imaginary troubles she'd invented. If there was any luck left in the world, he'd've forgotten about it by the time he got back tomorrow.

"I'm sure Dad will be thrilled."

* * *

One big empty farmhouse, all to herself. She could still remember days, rare though they might have been, when she'd had an occasional afternoon alone in this place, but it hadn't been the same. It had been a lot smaller then, before they'd built all the additions to function as a dorm, plus all the extra bathrooms and single bedrooms for the adult Talents and the permanent residents, and it hadn't… _echoed_ quite so much. Or maybe that had just been the expectation of company- even with a few hours to herself, she'd always known that Dad would come home, and Mom, and Lyle, and Zach would come by to bully her about her math homework, and Jake would stop by for a lesson and to hang out with Zach, and if it was a weekend then she could probably expect Peter to teleport in, sometimes with Claude in tow if he wasn't trying to sweep her off to New York for the day. Basically, even when she'd been alone she'd always known that she didn't really have the house to herself. And now, she did.

Almost on cue, she heard footsteps approach the doorway and then pause, just outside. She didn't bother to turn around and see who it was, because she didn't have to. "Peter's gone off to play chaperone on the camping trip."

"How do you know I'm looking for Peter?"

Claire twisted her head around till she could get a look at him, still hovering in the doorway. "Maybe I'm psychic. Or, maybe I just heard you muttering under your breath as you were walking down the hall. What happened to your much-vaunted silent sneakiness?"

Claude ignored that and crossed the room, his boots now surprisingly quiet on the wood floorboards. "Camping trip?"

"Yeah, it's that time of the year again. The whole Farm migrates two miles out into the deep, dark woods for some fun, bonding, and testing of control. Hopefully nothing gets burnt down."

"And Peter's playing nanny?" His tone dripped skepticism. She didn't blame him- historically speaking, Peter was just as likely to encourage risky testing-of-limits as he was to lay down the law, but no one could deny that Peter had power, more power than anyone else, the kind of practice in control that very few could claim, and some amount of experience teaching at the Institute, when Michael could cajole him into doing it. And all of the reasons she'd used to talk him into it were perfectly valid. A lot of the guests here at the Farm idolized Peter, and for good reason.

"Well, he's usually not around for the trip, so it's not like it's a regular thing for him. Call it practice for when the two you finally settle down and adopt a couple of rugrats."

Claude's expression said what he thought of _that_ idea, and she couldn't help laughing. "Oh, relax, you know I'm teasing."

"Wench," he grumbled, but he came around the end of the couch anyway, and stood in front of her, his hands slouched into his pockets. He looked comfortable, casual, completely-at-ease. Which meant that something was bothering him.

"Well, whatever you want from Peter, it's gonna have to wait till tomorrow," she said. "Barring any emergency- and please, God, let's bar any emergencies- neither hell nor high water is gonna pry Dad and his troops out of those woods till tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. I mean, you could walk out there, but-" He made a disgusted noise. "-Yeah. Why would you want to?"

"Camping," he said, "is the world's worst way to waste time." Which had nothing to do with his power, of course. For a man who walked New York's meanest streets fearlessly, he sure did hate the woods. Probably because it was damn hard to sneak around when leaves and twigs insisted on crackling and snapping under your feet.

"Agreed," she said, and waved one hand airily at the couch. "Which is why you see me here, sitting in a nice, comfy, air-conditioned house instead of out in a tent somewhere. No thanks. No amount of pleading, coercion, or bribery on Dad's part is ever going to get me out there- and believe me, he's tried."

"Hmmph," he said, and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. His shoulders were halfway to his ears now, he was slouching so hard. Claude spent so much time invisible that he sometimes forgot about body language and how easily it could give you away.

"Oh, for crying out loud," she said, and, grabbing his wrist, pulled him hard down onto the couch. He went down with an "oomph," and landed slightly sideways with his head just next to hers and his long legs sprawling out over the floor. "Sit, relax. Have some wine and spill whatever it is that's got you tensed up like someone shoved a board up your spine."

Claude twisted away from her till he was sitting mostly upright and scowled at her. "It's nothing."

"See, the funny thing is? I've been telling everyone _else_ that, and no one believes me, either." She stretched to snag the wine bottle from the sideboard, topped off her glass, and handed it over to Claude. "Drink. Trust me, you'll feel better."

He drank the wine. Actually, he gulped it, and her eyebrows went up as it disappeared with alarming rapidity down his throat. He finished it and handed the empty cup back to her with a challenging look, so she promptly refilled it and handed it back. "Okay then. Obviously, this is going to be one of _those_ kinds of nights."

Luckily, he didn't gulp this one, but sipped like a normal person. "One of what kind of nights?"

"The heavy drinking, and wild carousing, and drunken confessions. Maybe we can even braid each other's hair."

Claude gave her a Look. "We don't have nights like those."

Claire contemplated getting up to get a second wineglass- she hadn't exactly been anticipating company- but decided that she didn't really care, and just took a sip straight from the bottle. Oh yeah, all class, that was her. Her father would be appalled. Both fathers. And her mother. Probably random strangers, too. "Maybe we should start." Maybe she'd already had a few too many.

"My hair isn't long enough."

She snorted and tugged at one errant lock, the backs of her fingers brushing against the outer curve of his ear. He shivered. "True. Maybe we should just stick to the carousing and drunken confessions."

"And just what am I supposed to be confessing?" Claude asked, his voice unusually low. His eyes didn't even flicker away from hers. It made her uncomfortable for some reason, so she looked away, trying to figure out where she'd set down the wine bottle.

Claude handed her the glass, like he was reading her mind. She flashed him a grateful smile and took a sip. Mmm, wine. "I don't know. Anything you want to get off your chest?"

And just like that, his gaze was shuttered. "I told you, it's nothing."

"Right. Or just something that you have to tell Peter, right?" She arched one eyebrow when he flushed. "Yeah, thought so. Not that I blame you, but you do know that trusting Peter for emotional advice is like asking a dog for comportment lessons?"

"It's not like that," Claude said. "It's not about advice. It's just- something I need to tell him, is all."

"Mmm-hmmm." Claire took another, deeper sip of wine. It wasn't like she could _really_ get drunk, but if she worked at it, she could hold her pleasantly warm and tipsy state for a good long while, and that was exactly what she planned to do. Eventually she'd have to go looking for a second bottle of wine, but she had a little while before she got to that point, and right now she was talking to Claude. Claude who needed to tell something to Peter. "Well, if you have no drunken confessions to make, maybe I should make some."

This did not seem to relieve Claude's discomfort any. "Maybe that's not the best idea."

"Oh, _relax._" She grabbed his hand, laced her fingers through his, her palm dwarfed against his larger one. She thought she heard him swallow. "I don't get drunk, Claude, you know that. I'm not likely to tell you something you don't already know."

"Doesn't really cut much out, does it?" He hadn't let go of her hand. That's all she could think- he hadn't let go of her hand. He almost never let her touch him, not casually, but here he was, letting her hold his hand.

"No, but I'm sure there's got to be one or two shocking things you've made yourself forget." She let her head drop back to stare at the ceiling. "You've known me since I was sixteen, there's got to be one or two dumb things I could confess a second time."

"You really don't need to. There's not much I'm likely to have forgot."

She ignored this. "Oh, here's one! Once upon a time, there was a girl named Claire. And Claire was a very special girl, but she had one eensy-weensy little problem. She sort of fell for the wrong guy, and he wasn't a bad guy, in fact he was pretty great as far as guys went, but what do you know, he had a few issues along the way, and she wasn't really the right girl for him."

Claude's fingers tightened on hers. "Claire-"

"And that was okay, she could deal with that, she'd learned to live with it and she had a big family and a lot of people who loved her, so that was okay. But then little Claire, who wasn't so little anymore but still really hadn't learned her lesson, fell in love with another guy! And this guy was amazing, he was so connected with her, he knew exactly how she was feeling and he loved her and it was perfect. It was just perfect."

"Claire, don't-"

"Except what she didn't know was that he only knew how she was feeling because he was freaking empathic," she said flatly. "And he didn't know how to turn it off. And when she brought him home to meet her daddy, because she'd finally thought that she'd found The One, she just happened to bring him within range of a whole houseful of damaged, unhappy people. And when he cried himself awake at night, she didn't notice. And when he got out of bed, she didn't notice. And when he went outside, and found a gas can, and poured it all over the kitchen and lit it on fire, she didn't notice. And when the flames got outside and into the gas main and it exploded-"

"Jesus Christ, Claire, stop, for Christ's sake stop, I can't take it anymore." Claude yanked the wineglass out of her hand, causing the wine to slosh over the sides a little, and slammed it down on the end table. Her jeans were damp, she thought blankly. Her jeans were damp and they smelled like red wine. She'd never get that stain out. "Claire, darlin', come on. Nothing good comes of those memories. Nothing."

"He's dead, Claude. He's dead because I never noticed what was going on. Because I was so primed to fall in love with someone exactly like P-" She stuttered, then forced herself to finish. "Exactly like Peter, that I managed to bring a damaged, hopeless, out-of-control fucking _emotional reader _in range of people who hurt so bad inside that it literally made him want to die. Do you know he just stood there in the kitchen when he caught on fire? He never even screamed. Nobody woke up till the gas main went up. He hurt that much, _that fucking much_ that burning to death was a relief for him. And I did that."

"No." Claude wasn't holding her hand now. One hand was in her hair, cradling her head against his shoulder, and then other was stroking her arm, restlessly, as soothingly as he knew now. "No, he did that to himself. He was sick, his own Talent made him sick, and he wouldn't ever have gotten better because he couldn't even admit to himself what was wrong. He lived in the middle of _New York City,_ Claire, and you think a trip out to the Farm is what tipped him over the edge?" He grabbed her chin, forced her to look at him. "You think you did this? If anything, you kept him here longer. Being near you, being able to feel you- there's no way it didn't help him hold on."

She blinked, swallowed hard. She couldn't even take in the rest of that speech, the longest she'd ever heard him make, she was so caught by his last words, what they revealed. She'd known he loved her, of course she loved him back, he was best friend, he slept on her couch all the time, he even had his own closet because she had a coat rack and she'd rathered use the hall closet for him if it had meant he'd stay around more. In some ways she was closer to him than anybody, even Peter. But he'd never said anything like that to her. Not ever.

"Claude?" she whispered.

She suddenly realized that his face was very close to hers. Very, very close. He twitched slightly, like he was trying to move away and couldn't get his muscles to respond, then swallowed, hard. He looked exhausted, almost starveling in the dim pool of light shed by the desk lamp, and more terrified than she'd ever seen him.

A lot of things suddenly started to make sense. "This is what you wanted to talk to Peter about," she said. Her hand was still wrapped around the back of his neck. Almost against her will, her fingers began to move, carding the tips of her nails through the short hairs there, and he shivered.

"Yeah," he said, hoarsely. His hand came out of her hair, pulling away- but not too far, he will still just inches away, his eyes burning into hers with something she couldn't quite read. He cleared his throat and said again, "Yeah."

"Huh." In retrospect, it was actually fairly obvious- okay, no, it wasn't. Even with hindsight this was still kind of a curveball. In seven years she'd never once seen him or Peter so much as _look_ at anyone else- and why would they bother, when they could each be just what they needed each other to be? Sure, Peter had told her if-it-had-been-different, back in the beginning when she'd just gotten him back, but that was seven years ago and they hadn't talked about this since. And this wasn't Peter sitting next to her, because Peter tended to sprawl all over her when they sat like this, and only Claude could hold himself that extra inch away and still manage to loom, to surround her with the sheer size of his presence.

This was _Claude._ He was literally old enough to be her father, and he'd never- He didn't-

Oh, but he did. "That's why you keep coming into my room at night, checking up on me," she realized. She didn't get that she'd said it out loud until Claude closed his eyes in resignation and pulled another inch away.

"Yeah."

"And why you hate my boyfriends."

"I hate your boyfriends because they're brainless, spineless wankers that aren't fit to kiss your feet," Claude said with surprising ferocity, his eyes snapping open. She bit her lip and blinked at him, stunned by the sudden force of personality that was bearing down on her when moments ago he'd been meek and resigned. Surprise made her blurt out, "I was wondering when I was gonna get something besides 'yeah."

Immediately, she winced, because that had been snappy and sarcastic and way too close to their normal teasing, and that didn't have a place here because this was serious, this was for real. This was Claude, letting her know in the only way he could that he loved her, that she meant something to him. She'd figured that out already, of course- it never would have gotten this far if he didn't- but he'd just opened his heart to her, Claude-style, and she'd blundered right over it.

He pulled completely away, flopping back against the cushions. "Fuck," he said, under his breath, and then, louder and more heartfelt- "_Fuck._"

Immediately she knelt up, putting one hand on his shoulder. "No- Claude, I-"

"Forget it," he said. He paused, swallowed, and then his body tensed in preparation to heave himself up from the couch. "Just- forget this ever happened."

"Not a chance," she said, and decided that if he was determined to get away she needed to be equally determined in keeping him where he was, so she twisted around and swung one leg over his, effectively pinning him with her weight on his knees. "You've run away from me enough times, Claude Raines, and you're not doing it today."

He blinked up at her, his eyelashes incongruously long and feminine against the harsh, stubbled planes of his face. "…Alright," he said cautiously. "I just- This was stupid. I shouldn't have said anything. It was just, I'm tired, and the drink, and-"

"I'm glad you told me," she said softly. It shut him up like nothing else, and she took advantage of the moment to rebalance herself on her knees and bring her hands up to his face, her hands cupping his jaws, stubble pricking into her palms, her fingers against the cool hollows of his throat and the pads of her thumbs brushing the tiny crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. There were shadows underneath, deep ones, and she knew that he hadn't been sleeping, she'd heard him coming and going over the last few months, but she'd never imagined that she could be the cause for his insomnia. If she had, she'd- Well, she had no idea how she would have reacted a month, a week, even a day ago, because that was then and this was now and all she knew was that her best friend was hurting and she had to make him better any way she could.

"I love you," he blurted out. Immediately she felt his jaw muscles clench as if he wished he could bite back the words from the air, but his chin went up and he looked at her defiantly. "I know it's stupid, and I'm old enough to be your Da, and God knows you've never looked anywhere but Peter, but there it is and I can't seem to do anything to change it so do with it what you will."

She'd never heard him say so much at one time. Claude was sparing with his words, keeping back the flood of emotion that he had buried under the surface and allowing only caustic sarcasm and curt advice to filter through. She knew this, knew how to translate him, had spent painstaking years learning him inside and out. She could never in a million years have imagined that he would have this inside, this schoolyard dare of a declaration, and she found herself inexplicably charmed. She'd never imagined this, but she should have. It was Claude all over.

She wanted to answer him, something eloquent and passionate and convincing, something that would keep him from locking himself away again, something that would stop him from running away from her like he always did. He always came back, but she was tired of that. If he ran, she wanted to run with him. That was what love was.

And in the end, she couldn't think of a good way to say it, so she just kissed him.

He kissed her back with all the desperate energy of a man who knew that any moment this could be taken from him. She didn't try to slow or gentle the contact, figuring that she could save that for later- now, she gave him what he wanted, and kissed him like the world was going to end. Maybe it was.

He was the one who finally pulled away, for air. She could have kept going for a while longer- she couldn't go without air forever, but her power reoxygentated her body past the point that her lungs could provide- but he didn't have that particular talent, and he needed to breathe. She let him, leaning her forehead against his to make sure that he didn't pull too far away, and kissed him again, lightly, when he'd gulped in a few lungfuls of air.

"What was that?" he managed a second later. She closed her eyes and sighed, resting more of her weight against him as her thighs began to burn.

"Short version? That was me saying, 'ditto.'"

He stared at her for a long moment, uncomprehending, so she had the pleasure of watching as understanding slowly filtered into his eyes. "You-"

"Me," she said. "You. Yeah."

"Huh," he said. She half-laughed against his mouth, and just like that they were kissing again- slow, unhurried, luxurious. She'd seen him and Peter kissing, when they didn't know she was in the room, or forgot to make themselves invisible. This was the kind of kiss they shared. This was the kind of kiss she'd always dreamed of getting from Peter, and here she was with Claude living her fantasy, and it was all so surreal but so, so _good._

Claude was the one who pulled away again, worry darkening his face. "This isn't just because-"

"No," she interrupted. He gave her a look, the corner of his mouth curling like he was fighting not smile.

"You didn't even let me finish."

"That's because whatever you were going to say was stupid," she retorted, sitting upright and pushing her hair out of her face with one impatient hand. "No, it's not because I'm upset, or feeling restless, or in a rut, or whatever. No, it's not because of the alcohol, I was barely even tipsy and I'm not even that anymore. No, it's not because of Peter, or because of Mason, or whichever other person you were going to come up with." She braced herself on the back of the couch and leaned in, resting her forehead against his and closing her eyes. "It's just because of you, okay? I'm sorry I didn't figure things out sooner and I'm sorry it's been kind of a traumatic event getting here, but it's just you. That's all there is to it. Okay?"

Claude huffed out a little half-laugh and let his forehead lean back against hers. "Okay."

* * *

She woke up at the sound of someone walking past her on whisper-quiet feet. But she'd had seven years around Claude to learn how to listen for movement instead of watch it, and she heard it. The unknown intruder wasn't anywhere near as good as Claude, or even her Dad, who'd been Special Ops, once upon a long time ago. And she'd been a light sleeper for years now, ever since she'd lost Mason by not sleeping lightly enough.

She waited till whoever it was had left the room before she got up, careful not to wake Claude. She shouldn't have worried- he was deeply, truly asleep, fully visible the way he almost never was when he slept. He looked a lot younger like this. She affectionately smoothed one ragged lock of hair off his forehead, and smiled when his head tilted unconsciously towards her hand, chasing her touch, even in sleep. There was a lot to be said for a man who was thinking about you even when he was unconscious.

She snagged her terrycloth robe off the hook on the door and followed the ghostly sound of footsteps down the hall to the den where everything had started last night. It was early, a little past dawn, and she shivered a little in the dewy cold that permeated the drafty old house. Her robe was thick, but she wasn't wearing anything underneath.

Peter was waiting for her in the den, perched uneasily on the arm of the couch, looking like he was about to take flight at any moment. Claire had to take a moment to realize the strangeness of the moment- Peter Petrelli, caught off guard. It happened so rarely, she couldn't even remember the last time.

"Morning," she said, when he seemed incapable of breaking the silence.

"Morning." Unlike her, his voice wasn't sleep-rusty, but just as smooth as if he'd been up and about for hours. Knowing Peter, he very well might have been.

He didn't say anything else, so she wrapped her robe a little tighter around herself and raised an eyebrow. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Uh, yeah," he said, looking so much like the overgrown boy who'd rescued her from Sylar all those years ago that her heart clenched. She halfway expected him to reach up and brush the hair out of his eyes, even though he'd kept it short for seven years now. Then he straightened up and he was Peter again, the Peter that she knew. The old Peter had been burned up in the flames of resurrection, and the only part of him left were the echoes in her memory. "Everyone's just about ready to head back." He hesitated, and then- "I thought you might need the heads-up."

So that no one stumbled over her and Claude, naked in her childhood bedroom. Oh yeah, that would be awkward. Her Dad would be _thrilled._

Of course, that meant that Peter had been spying, last night. Not exactly a new thing, for him, but this was an entirely new (and unexpected) situation, and Claire wasn't entirely sure how she felt about Peter looking in last night.

"Thanks," she said. "For the heads-up." Implied was the, _however it was you knew._

Peter didn't look too ashamed of himself. Why would he, when he'd had blanket permission to look into their heads whenever he wanted for almost a decade? Just because last night had been kind of a New Thing for her didn't mean that Peter would have given her privacy unless she'd asked for it. And though she hadn't really been thinking much at the time, she knew that she probably wouldn't have bothered to warn him off, if it had even occurred to her. She was too used to living every single part of her life under Peter's all-seeing-eyes, it would have felt almost strange to her to turn away.

The silence stretched out again, and Claire sighed, slouching hipshot against the back of the couch. Damn it, she had good memories of that couch now, and Peter's (sulking? Or angry? She couldn't quite tell) expression was totally ruining it for her. Whatever it was, it meant something bad, because Peter could lie like a rug about most things, unless you got him upset, and then it was all over his face. Right now, he looked pretty upset, though he was trying to hide it.

"Okay. Whatever it is, just tell me. Because it's way too early to be playing Twenty Questions, and I'm not up to an extensive digging session."

Peter hesitated, but nodded. She hid her relief. If she had to deal with "It's nothing" from _him_ of all people, she would fucking scream.

"I didn't- I wasn't expecting last night. What happened. That's all."

His sentenced were stuttered, choppy. Peter was a smooth-talking bastard, normally. He must be really, really upset. "There's no way you didn't pick this up from Claude." Or was there? "Right?"

Peter shook his head quickly, answering that question. "No, I knew. But I never thought he'd say anything. And I never picked up anything from _you,_ so I just didn't think-"

"It sounds like you didn't think, period," she said, mildly enough. Inwardly, she wanted to smack him. He just didn't _get_ people, not really. Nathan, now, if Nathan had been where Peter was, he'd've seen this coming like a baseball to the face. But Nathan never could have been where Peter was.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

When Peter gave her that sullen, defensive glare, he looked about fifteen. Sometimes Claire wondered how Nathan managed not to strangle him in his sleep. "It means that either you didn't know as much as you thought you did, or you underestimated Claude. And me."

Peter shot her a quick, challenging look. "And which do you think it was?"

She wondered if Peter really wanted her to give an honest answer, but- well, he'd asked. "I think that you consistently underestimate just how much love is worth to people who aren't you."

Peter straightened up so fast, she could practically hear his spine crack. "That's _not_ true."

She cocked her head, unimpressed. "Isn't it? You rate _need_ as much higher for people like you, remember? And you think Claude is like you."

"He's always been like me."

"Oh, Peter, honey." She wanted to be smoking for this. She wanted to stalk over to him in her high heels, take a drag of her cigarette, and blow a perfect cloud of smoke into his face from between her red-painted lips.

But she didn't smoke and never had, and she was standing there wearing a worn robe and the remains of yesterday's makeup, with her hair a rat's nest snarl from sex and several hours of sleep. And also, this wasn't a movie. But it was a moment of triumph, nonetheless, in the peaceful, desperate war they'd been having in place of a relationship for these last seven years and change. Peter had always held all the cards, but finally, she had a point to score and she was, by God, going to savor the moment.

"Claude's been out of the cold for a long time now," she said, gently because Peter took bad news like Claire took a knife to the spine and no matter what, she never wanted to really hurt him. "He's not some wild animal you tamed. Eventually, he was always going to want something more."

Peter looked away, his jaw clenched. "That's not fair."

Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. Peter always did have his own view of the world, and God help you if you couldn't learn to see things his way, because he was never gonna see it yours. "You were gone a long time, after the explosion. I don't know how long and I'm not going to ask-" Especially since he had her healing gifts and look at how _she_ was (or rather wasn't) aging. "-but whatever happened to you and whatever happened to Claude are two different things. You've never gotten over whatever it was, but he _has,_ Peter. He can love someone without it being quite so fucked up, and that's what you've always wanted for me so by God if you are going to be an asshole about this-"

"No, no, no!" Peter threw up his hands in defense, looking back at her quickly before glancing away again. "I'm not- okay, I'm not _trying_ to be an asshole about this. It's just- Jesus Christ, Claire. Give me a little room to adjust. This is pretty fucking new to me, too. And I'm kind of losing a life partner, in case you hadn't noticed."

She gaped at him, feeling every potential drop of sympathy dry up like tear drops in the sun. "You're kidding me, right? Where in all of that did you get the idea that he's leaving you?"

Peter blinked at her, confused. "Uh, maybe the part where he's in love with you?"

She'd only thought she wanted to smack him before. Now she really _did_ want to smack him. "And what, that means he cares about you any less? It doesn't work that way, not for us. He's still just as much yours as he's ever been, and he still comes home to me. But he's been doing that for years now, Peter. There's not really much changing except-"

She stopped, and narrowed her eyes at him. "But you know all of that already," she accused. "You walk around inside his head even more than mine. You're not worried that he's going to leave you, you're just jealous. But you've never been jealous with Claude, so why-"

"It's probably better if you just stop, Claire," Peter said, his voice strained. He wouldn't look at her. She was onto something.

"Unless it's not him that's got you jealous," she said quietly. "It's me."

"Claire-"

"No, no, we don't talk about this, right? But I think we have to, this time. You've never been jealous before because it was never _real_ before, was it? I never fell for any of the guys I dated except Mason, and you weren't really around then. You didn't find out how I felt until… after, and by then you were safe, right? And I've never gotten close since. Except with Claude. And it's _freaking you out._"

"Claire, I can't do this with you. I _won't_ do this with you. Not now, not ever."

Looking at him now, Claire realized that he'd been a lot better at this when she was sixteen. She'd sat on her pretty pink bed and listened to him tell her that this wasn't in the cards, so persuasive that she'd _believed_ him, she'd believed _in_ him, just like she always had. It was Peter, and she was in love with him, and so of course she believed everything he told her.

But twenty-five was a long way from sixteen, especially in a life like hers, and she thought she understood him better now. Peter wasn't the charismatic leader, wasn't the dashing hero or the world-weary soldier or the dark-eyed prophet he'd seemed, sitting on the end of her bed that fateful day. Peter didn't have everything figured out, Peter didn't have all the answers.

Peter was, to put it simply, deeply and desperately afraid of everything that she was and everything that she meant for him. Because of all the things that she'd thought he was, when he was just a deeply-fucked up guy doing some pretty fucked-up things for mostly the right reasons, and even more now when he was playing something close to normal and she could see right through him and loved him anyway. Because she'd always loved him, that was the thing, she'd always loved him and that _scared the hell out of him,_ because he had no idea what to do with someone like her. He never really had.

Oh, Peter, she thought. He always made things so much harder on himself than they had to be.

She got up and closed the distance between them. It was only a few feet, but from the shuttered, closed way he was holding his body, it might as well have been a million miles.

She put her hand on his cheek, over the scar that bisected that pretty, dreamer's face she'd fallen in love with at fifteen. "Peter, I'm just not going to die. I'm not going to get hurt, and I'm not going to grow old. I've got all the time in the world. Eventually, you're going to realize that whatever it is you get from me is just going to be _better_ if you get all the rest, not worse."

He didn't blink, didn't even acknowledge that he'd heard her. She hadn't really expected him to. "I know you, Peter," she said. "I _know_ you. And you know what?"

Despite himself, he responded. "What?"

It was a challenge, a child's dare. It was foolish bravado. She could feel him shaking under her hand.

She leaned down, till her lips were all but brushing his ear. "I love you anyway," she whispered, and then she straightened up, and she turned around and walked out of the room, not allowing herself to look back.

Only after the door was shut behind her did she allow herself to stop, and lean against it, and shake like a leaf. She hadn't been sure she could go through with it.

Then she pulled herself together, and went to wake Claude.

* * *

Her Dad was waiting for her at the door that afternoon, when she grabbed one last, tight, grateful hug from Zach, and then slung her bag over her shoulder and made her way to the foyer. She'd planned to stay the weekend- it was only Friday, and she was officially off until Monday- but she' decided that they'd probably be more comfortable finishing their vacation at home (and preferably, in bed) and Claude hadn't really been inclined to argue.

Her Dad slung his arm around her shoulders, hugging her tight to his body despite the awkward press of her bag between them, and kissed the top of her head. "We never did get to have that talk," he said. "Maybe you should put off leaving a few hours and tell your old Dad your troubles."

She craned her neck so that she could peer up at his face. He looked just the same as he always had, maybe a little older, a few more wrinkles, but the same glasses and the same mild expression and the same uncomplicated love for her underneath it all. Everything else might be tied in knots, but she'd never, ever doubt how much he loved her. She knew that he'd always be there for her, with a gun or a ready ear, whatever she needed, whatever was wrong. Always.

Already out in the car, Claude honked impatiently, eager to go. Peter had left early this morning without saying anything to anyone, but Claire refused to get in a plane with Claude again. Hiro was going to meet them at the airport after they'd returned the car, and he'd take them home.

Home. Back to her apartment, with one bed that was more than big enough for two, though she'd never shared it with anyone that mattered, and one couch, which would never have a pillow on it again, if she had anything to say about it. With the coffeemaker he'd bought for her, when she'd been too stubborn to give up on her old one no matter how much it was breaking, and the jokey mugs she'd been buying him for Christmas and Easter and every other occasion she could think of because they drove him crazy, with the bookshelves she'd long ago ceded to his voracious reading habits and the floorboards Peter never walked but practically had Claude's name worn into them.

"It's okay, Daddy," she said, and smiled at him, brilliant and sincere. "I figured it out."

* * *

She was in her office bright and early Monday morning, sorting through the reams of paperwork that had collected in her absence. _Jesus,_ Claire thought, surveying the veritable snowdrift of paper partially burying her desk. _Gone for a few days and already this place is falling apart._

"It's nice to be needed, I guess," she said aloud, and had to smile. There was a lot of that going around recently.

Michael came by a few minutes later, sticking his head in and knocking shave-and-a-haircut on the doorframe. "Heard you were back," he grinned. "As you can see, you were missed."

"Yeah, I noticed, thanks. Seriously, is it that hard to just file your own damn reports? I was gone for _five days,_ and here I've got piles of lab work from Mohinder, intake reports from Niki, training logs from you- I mean, you do know that I'm not the secretary, right?"

"We don't _have_ a secretary, so yeah, I've got that. But you gotta know that we've gotten pretty used to you being here. We don't know what to do without you sending us emails and leaving post-its on our computers."

Claire crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm not your mother, I'm the admin."

"No, you're the boss." He smiled faintly when she gaped at him. "You're the only one who hasn't noticed. Even Nathan just sends people to talk to you when they've got questions."

"I-" She stopped. Wasn't that what Monty had been trying to tell her, in his own twisty little way? She'd thought he was aiming at something a little more abstract and sentimental, but- "Huh." Come to think of it, she'd been getting emails from some of their double-blind investors lately. She'd been answering them on Nathan's behalf because she knew he didn't really like dealing with things like that, but it hadn't occurred to her that Nathan might have been sending them her way deliberately _because_ he didn't like dealing with it. He never had been all that involved with the day-to-day of the Institute, not the way that she had, even in the middle of those last couple years of college, when she'd thought her brain would just implode from the stress.

She'd already been doing the paperwork, it hadn't seemed any different to her after she'd graduated and started doing it officially. But maybe it had been.

"I guess I am," she said, still turning the idea over a little in her mind. It seemed hard to credit, since Michael, Mohinder, Nicky, her father- none of them _reported_ to her, none of them took orders from her or anything, but then again, they didn't have to. They all knew their jobs, they'd _created_ those jobs, the whole lot of them had built the Institute from the ground up. All Claire had to do was keep them functioning smoothly as a unit, which sort of made her the boss, if you thought of it that way. Claire hadn't. Apparently, everyone else had.

Michael nodded, satisfied that she'd gotten it. "There you go. That's why the paperwork still lands on your desk, sweetie. The rest of us wouldn't know the first thing to do with it."

"Yes, but there's still way too _much_ paperwork. It's a little ridiculous, you have to admit."

"Can't argue with that." He studied the heaps of paper with a narrow-eyed gaze, then cut his hand through the air in front of him. With a flurry of white, the papers rearranged themselves, and he gave her a triumphant little grin.

Claire surveyed the now neatly-stacked piles on her desk. Telekinetics. They had their uses. "Thanks."

"You're more than welcome. Don't want you quitting on us at this late stage, you know."

"Yeah, not much chance of that." Her whole fucking life was tied up in this place, one way or another. "Maybe I need a secretary," she mused. "I bet we could get one of the older kids to do it. Call it an internship, or something."

"That's not a half-bad idea. We've got a couple heading into college that could use a part-time job, right?"

Claire sorted through her mental files. "Carey, I think? And maybe Dylan. I don't know if he's gotten his acceptance letter, though."

"And you wonder why you're the boss. I'll pass it on to Nik, have her do the ground work."

"Excellent." It really was a good idea. The way the Institute had been expanding in the last two years, they'd been fumbling a little trying to keep up. A little more efficiency could only be a good thing.

When the old ways didn't work, she thought, make a change. Wasn't that what this last week had been about? She'd been dissatisfied, and now she wasn't. Because she'd made a change. Or rather, Claude had made one for her. All Claire had had to do was keep up.

On the heels of that thought, she felt a puff of displaced air as a large body slid past Michael and headed towards her desk. She smiled and reached out, catching the trailing end of Claude's coat with the ease of long practice. "Hey, you."

Claude winked back into visibility, perched on the corner of her desk. "Hello."

Seeing him there, in her space, made something nice bubble over a little in Claire's chest. "Michael, if you'd excuse us for a minute? And let Mohinder know that I want to talk to him." She paused. "Try not to traumatize the kiddies with any public displays of affection while you're at it, mmkay?"

"Will do- boss." Michael tipped an imaginary hat, the picture of boyish innocence. When he left, she heard his footsteps start to fade away, and then the door closed rather pointedly on its own.

Not as dumb as he looked, that one. Plus the gossip system in this place ran on rocket fuel, so… Hmm.

Claire rested her cheek on one fist and smiled up at Claude. "What brings you here? I didn't think you even knew where my office was."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged, looking deeply uncomfortable. "Technically speaking an' all, I do work here."

"Yeah, like you ever pay attention to technicalities unless it suits you. Also, I've never seen you in my office."

"Well, you wouldn't, would you?"

She just looked at him, very steadily. "I always know when you're around," she told him. Maybe she should have said this sooner, but they'd been busy laughing and having sex and hanging around all weekend, trying to settle down into their brand-new normal. They'd been careful not to talk about anything serious at all. "Whether I can see you or not."

His face reflected absolutely everything, if you knew how to read it. Not for the first time, Claire wondered how he'd managed to work against the Company even as long as he did, all those years ago. How had her father- her observant, canny, know-everything father, not taken one look at him and just _known?_

Then again, he'd hidden from her a long time, too. So maybe it was just that neither one of them had known what to look _for._

"So what brings you to my humble abode?" she asked, when the silence stretched and something suspiciously like a blush was staining his cheeks. It was hard to see, with the three-day-bender stubble he was always sporting, but Claire could tell.

"Can't a man visit without some kind of ulterior motive?" Claude demanded. He was trying for the "wounded innocence" act, but he wasn't very good at it, and Claire was pretty much immune, besides. Spend enough time around the Petrelli clan, and all lesser manipulators didn't have a chance.

"Not when it's you, no. What's on your mind?"

He caved. She could actually see it happen, which was one of the more fascinating and surreal experiences of her life. She'd expected to have to fight for an honest answer, just like she always had. But she was starting to realize that Claude was going to be different with someone he'd let in as far as her, and there were parts of him that she might have to relearn entirely.

"I swung by the Petrelli tomb. Was going to pick up m'things, you know, bring them by your place." He picked at a seam on his cuff. "Guess I wanted to make a point."

Claire bit her lip. This would be an absolutely terrible time to laugh. He was being incredibly sweet, and also making a pretty great statement on their relationship, and she appreciated the hell out of it, especially since she hadn't even known he was _capable_ of this kind of thing. It was just-

"And you realized that your stuff is already at my apartment?"

He scowled down at his hands, picking at one thumbnail with the other. "Something like that."

It was _exactly_ like that. Claire had been wondering for months now if was going to notice that he had, essentially, moved in. Oh, he kept a few changes of clothes in Peter's rooms in the mansion, and he went back there a few nights a week because that's where Peter was, but he always came home to her. He'd been on her couch more and more over the years, and eventually his clothes had come drifting in too, and she'd cleared out her hall closet and always had a fresh change of clothes ready for him, and somehow, he'd never really noticed. In retrospect, he'd probably been a little too distracted by other things.

She reached out and caught his hand, the one he'd been picking at. "It's the thought that counts."

He snorted and leaned away, thought she noticed he didn't let go of her hands. "Got any more wisdom for me, Pollyanna?"

She just grinned at him, happy all over again to have him here, in her life and in her office, sitting on her desk and making fun of her. He was rude, annoying, and had the social graces of an enraged wolverine, but time and familiarity had worn his abrasiveness to a comfortable groove in her head and now she found him, God help her, _charming._ "Lost time is never found again? That which does not kill us makes us stronger? Believe nothing that you hear, and only half of what you see?" She paused. "Actually, that last seems a little too close to home, doesn't it?"

"Have you been writing down Petrelli's platitudes for posterity or what?"

"Nah, coffee-table book of famous quotes."

"Should've known."

"Yeah," she said, "especially since I've caught you reading the damn thing every time you're too damn bored to even change the channel on the TV."

He scowled at her. "Just because there's never anything good on-"

"There are six whole bookshelves about two feet to the left of the couch and most of them are yours. I'm sure you could manage to entertain yourself somehow."

"Yes but-" He stopped, narrowed his eyes. "Did you do that on purpose?"

She gave him her best innocent grin. "Do what?"

"No, that look may work on your various and sundry family, but it's damn well not going to work on me. You started that little argument just to distract me, didn't you?"

"I'm pretty sure you're the one who started it to distract _me,_" she pointed out. "I'm not the one with the classic guy-aversion to actually talking about something important."

"Don't be too sure," he said darkly, but he was smiling. "Anyway, it's the thought that counts, right?"

She laughed and squeezed his hand, tugging until he leaned down to give her a kiss. "Yeah. That's it exactly."

In the back of her head, she felt the old, familiar nudge that was Peter seeing what she was seeing. She just smiled into the kiss, kept her eyes closed, and ignored him.

She had better things to think about right now.

* * *

.end.


End file.
